


you wonder

by spheeris1



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Finale thoughts, Tiny bit of Angst, and decisions to be made, pondering of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spheeris1/pseuds/spheeris1
Summary: Eve p.o.v. // drabble // S3 stuff // It's quiet here.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	you wonder

/ / /

It's quiet here. 

It's quiet all around the two of you, both of you sitting on this bench in front of this art on the wall, too early for the parade of children and old men. Just the hum of distant air conditioning, the shuffle of soft leather soles on marble floors, and pages of pamphlets turning slowly.

You find yourself matching each breath you take to hers. Or maybe she's doing that with you instead, holding off on the inhale until your ribs expand and your lungs fill up full and then chasing after you.

You can hear her sigh, a strange and broken thing, and you've been here before, haven't you? With her showing sides of herself – petulant, childish, cunning, cruel – and now you catch a new shade, bluer than blue, along her jawline. It looks like sadness. It looks like weariness.

Honestly, it looks a lot like you feel, too.

/

“Do you like art?”  
“Not really. Do you?”

A huff of laughter. You smile as you stare at your hands in your lap.

“No, not really.”

A security guard walks by, eyes coasting over your faces then away again, and you watch him pass and you wonder how she'd kill him if she had to. You wonder how you would do that, too. It would have to be subtle, as silent as this museum is today, gentle and empty on this Sunday morning. No guns, with their shots echoing along the halls, and no knives, with so much blood spilling over and into the stone-cut cracks.

You wonder if you'll ever forget an ax in your grasp. You probably won't.

“Eve...”  
“Hmm?”  
“It's time.”

Oh right, that's why you are here. She told you she is leaving, running as fast and as far as she can. And she told you that she's done – for now, she said, for now for now for now – and you're smart enough to know it can never last.

The past catches up to us all, that's what you know.

But she wanted to see you. And you wanted to see her. And you suppose it was always going to end, never with justice but forever with bitterness and pain and sorrow and... and...

...and you wonder why you are tearing up, you can feel it building behind your steady gaze at nothing important – your hands, the floor, a piece of canvas splashed with reds and oranges – and haven't you already shed enough tears over all of this? Over terrible endings, over stupid mistakes? Over friends taken away, over lovers discarded? Over your own fantastic way of messing up your life?

Haven't you already felt this coming since the day you met her? This game and this pursuit and this frantic need and desperate yearning and this breathless, horrible thing between the two of you... 

Haven't you always been waiting for it all to come crashing down?

“Okay.”

And that's it. That's it. She walks away, steps so very quick, and you swear that you can't feel your body anymore. You swear that you cannot feel anything at all anymore.

That's it then.

/

Jamie isn't home. Thank god.

And you lay down in the bunk-bed, too small and too tight and a symbol of someone else's fucked up life, and it is dark and it is just another quiet space and you feel like screaming. Screaming until your throat is raw. Screaming until the whole city hears you. 

And have you always been this crazy? Have you always been this lonely? Have you always been searching and seeking for something – for someone – who could stand the splitting of your lips and the startling sounds you can make?

You fight and pry the window open, feel the afternoon air creeping in, cool and damp, and you see gray walls of apartment buildings and cityscapes and cars and people and everything.

And you scream. You scream and scream and scream.

And it hurts, eventually. It hurts and that's all you've got left to hold onto now.

/

“Hello?”

It's two or four or some other ungodly hour before dawn and your head is pounding, you're exhausted and you didn't eat anything and your voice drags up and out like sandpaper.

“What if I asked you this time?”

And you blink back into existence. Blink and cough and blink again.

“Asked me...?”  
“To come with me.”

And you blink. And you breathe. You sit up and you hit your head into this shitty bunk-bed and you groan.

“Eve?”  
“I'm here, I'm... I'm here.”  
“Would you?”

And you breathe. And you lean back and you wonder how long it'll be before she kills again, before she gets bored of you, before you need some normalcy to balance out all the insanity. You wonder if she'll kill you – or you her, if you're being truthful.

“I didn't give you a choice last time. But being able to choose is everything, isn't it?”

And your heart stops in your chest. And you wonder... oh fucking hell, you wonder if she heard you screaming from miles and miles away, from lifetimes away, all the way from the moment your eyes met on that damn dirt road and all either of you could ever see was each other...

...you wonder if there was ever any other choice to be made.

“Okay.”  
“Okay?”

And you exhale. And so does she.  
And it feels like coasting, free-falling, letting go.

“Yes.”

And it's quiet, except for breathing. Yours. Hers. And you wonder if what you are hearing is the beginning of something new, something unfettered and wild.

And you think you can hear her smile, even over the phone.

“Okay.”

And you find yourself smiling, too.

**[end]**

**Author's Note:**

> Listening to music, thinking about the wrap up of season three, and some good conversations I've had with others about the Eve/Villanelle dynamic. All mistakes are mine. Cheers.


End file.
